The Promise Keeper
Chapter Two: Wary
Two days passed before I finally met him. The fever had burned off, leaving behind a thick fatigue that clung like molasses. After ten days cooped up in the same room with my brother and his wife, it was strange to feel so eager to leave—and yet have to drag myself out. COVID was no joke.
“Feels good being out with the rest of humanity, doesn’t it?”
I looked up. His smile hit first: warm, bright, and wide enough to pull me in. His eyes followed—kind and steady. He extended his hand.
“I’m TJ.”
His voice matched the smile, and within seconds, I’d decided TJ was outgoing and social, far more than I could ever hope to be. I took his hand—firm, but gentle—and offered my name with a stammer that made my face flush. The shame was instant, familiar, heavy. But TJ just smiled again, as though he hadn’t noticed, or maybe just didn’t care. He was tall and dark, with a mop of thick, wavy hair that stopped short of unruly. His black wire-frame glasses matched his hair, and something about him felt familiar—like a face glimpsed in a dream. I knew I hadn’t met him before, yet the recognition lingered, unnameable. It would only deepen once we spoke. For now, I kept my distance.
TJ had a way about him, the kind of person who could draw anyone into conversation. He floated from one room to the next, chatting easily with my brother, the kids, Alisha. Watching him, I felt a strange mix of jealousy and awe. He made socializing look effortless. I could barely get through a “Good morning” without stumbling over the words, my tongue clumsy, my voice faltering. The longer I watched him talk—smooth, laughing, alive—the more I feared he’d turn that attention on me. So, I hid.
I tucked myself into the front room, the space that doubled as my brother’s office. The television became my shield, the noise a buffer between me and TJ’s easy charm.
It wasn’t just nerves that kept me at bay. A deeper, older caution lingered, carved into me by years of childhood abuse. Strangers, especially men, weren’t safe. Even now, in my late twenties, I carried that distrust like a weight. I hated it—the way my mind whispered warnings, the way I saw threats where there were none—but undoing it seemed impossible. I knew it wasn’t fair, not to TJ or anyone else, but knowing didn’t change it.
Instead, I stayed where it felt safe—with my brother and the kids.
The front room held a surprise: a ceiling-mounted projector that served as their TV. It threw a glow across the wall, casting movies in larger-than-life splendor. It brought me back to summer nights at the drive-in, curled up in pajamas, a bucket of candy in my lap. I let the memories settle around me as we watched Dinosaur and Elemental with the little ones, then Yellowstone and 28 Days Later when Alisha came home from work and the kids went to bed.
TJ lent us 28 Weeks Later from his stash, a quiet gesture that somehow made the evenings feel warmer. In the background, I heard his voice drift from the other room.
“I’m only staying for a month,” he said, his tone insistent.
“You’ll stay as long as you need,” Derek replied.
“Two months, tops.”
“As long as you need.” Derek’s voice held a firmness I recognized as love.
I didn’t think much of it until a few days later, when I sat in the front room, watching the kids play. My brother and Alisha spoke on the couch a few feet away.
“He seems more… submissive now," said my brother cautiously. “Like he’s afraid of being a burden.”
“Can you blame him?” Alisha replied. “After everything he’s been through? He won’t even hang his clothes in the hall closet. Says he’s fine keeping them in the garage. He’s afraid to take up space. He’s always saying he’s sorry, too. It’s sad, but it makes sense. People act like that when they’ve been hurt so badly.”
Hurt?
The word snagged in my mind.
I’d noticed TJ’s apologies, small and constant. He said sorry for things that didn’t warrant it—a dropped spoon, a misplaced remote. Yet he laughed often, too. His teasing was lighthearted, playful, the kind that made people smile. He pulled weeds, washed dishes, fixed things around the house. He hugged the kids when they needed it, brought brightness where there had been little. The house felt fuller, warmer, in his presence.
But there were cracks—the kind you don’t notice until you’re close enough to see the shadows.
Part of me wanted to keep my distance, but another part, the part that couldn’t stop noticing his kindness, pushed me forward. Slowly, day by day, I inched closer.
TJ never pushed back. He respected my silence. He didn’t pry, didn’t coax me into conversation. We sat together sometimes, the TV humming in the background. The screen flickered with a crackling fireplace, warm and golden.
“I love the sound of a fire,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
I froze. My pulse quickened. Was he expecting me to respond? Or was he simply making a comment? The longer I hesitated, the hotter my anxiety burned.
Say something. Say something.
I forced a breath, my chest tight.
“M-m-me too,” I blurted, the words rushing out in a jumble. “M-my uncle h-has a wood-burning stove. I w-want one for my house too.”
Heat flooded my face. My skin prickled, sweat gathering under my clothes despite the room’s cool air. I braced for pity or discomfort.
But TJ only smiled, soft and genuine.
“It’s so comforting, isn’t it?”
I nodded, the tension loosening just a little.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the first of many small bridges we’d build.
Over time, I started to notice more—the quiet insecurities beneath his easy demeanor, the way his kindness mirrored my own desire not to be a burden. Like me, TJ slept on a couch, declining the air mattress Alisha offered. Like me, he apologized too much, thanked people too often, tucked himself small so he wouldn’t take up space.
We were both broken, in our own ways—two people with matching scars we didn’t talk about.
But as I edged closer to him, I began to realize something: for all the walls I’d built, there was no reason to be wary of TJ.
Soon, I’d understand why.
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